Don't Deduce Me
by Impala Baby
Summary: High school isn't a place someone like Sherlock Holmes belongs. Sherlock isn't alone in that regard, John Watson is just as much of an outcast behind his facade of normality. It's just your typical boarding school but add a sociopath, a psychopath, and an aspiring doctor, and things get interesting. AU which is 100% Johnlock and is rated M for language, violence and slash smut.
1. Chapter 1

2016 is a long time away. So the question is, how to survive the hiatus? The solution is simple… writing fanfiction of course! This is a high school AU Johnlock fanfic, written mainly to help me keep my sanity. I'm planning on making it quite long so if your keen then buckle up for a long story! Fair warning though, this is rated M for a reason, so violence, M/M sex, and swearing are all ensured. I also promise flufflyness and cute smut, so don't worry it's not all dark and gloomy! I know high school fanfics aren't uncommon but I am trying to make this fanfic as original as possible. I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think. :) xx

**. . . .**

Mark's fist collided once again with Sherlock's cheek, sending a spluttering of blood from his mouth. Sherlock staggered backwards; his head hung between his knees. His hands gripped his kneecaps in an attempt to keep his balance. He blinked his eyes, trying to stop his head from spinning and to settle his stomach that was now churning from the bitter taste of his own blood.

"Explain yourself, freak," Mark yelled, grabbing Sherlock by the collar of his shirt.

Sherlock's head lolled back at the abrupt upwards movement and he found himself looking into a pair of brown eyes burning with pure hatred. He couldn't speak through the blood gathering in his mouth. If Mark wanted answers he was going to have to stop hitting him. However, gathering by the look on Mark's face he couldn't quite decide which scenario he found more appealing.

The blood dripping down Sherlock's face from one of the punches he had directed towards Sherlock's nose was irrationally pissing Mark off and he wanted to punch the sly git in the face again. He didn't know why the blood aggravated him; he was the one who had put it there. But there was something about the still somehow smug look Sherlock was giving him that he couldn't stand.

Sherlock tried to keep a straight face as the boy glared him down. He knew showing any signs of amusement would only led to further violence, which Mark looked only too willing to provide. It was pathetic. Sherlock looked Mark over and noticed his frame was remarkably larger than it had been before summer break; he would probably weigh in at around two hundred and fifty pounds now. He was easily double the size of Sherlock and was flagged by two other boys who nearly matched him in stature. He couldn't understand the appeal they found in beating someone who didn't even stand a chance of winning; he would have thought they would have liked some sort of challenge. But the events of the past two years had proved him wrong on that case.

"We won't ask you again, cunt. How the hell did you know about Mark and his new bird?" Carl spat, dragging his bulging form forward to stand beside Mark.

Sherlock crinkled his nose as an overpowering wave of foul body odor hit him. Carl's red beefy face was too close for comfort and his pinprick eyes were narrowed with unrestrained rage.

"Have you been spying on me you fucking perv?" Mark bellowed, shaking Sherlock by the collar of his shirt that was still gripped firmly in his oversized sweaty hands.

Sherlock shook his head softly, lowering his gaze. He should have just kept his mouth shut. He hadn't even thought anything of congratulating Mark on finally getting a girlfriend, until he took a blow to the face. He obviously wasn't supposed to know that, but it had been so obvious he might as well have had a sign.

"Of course not. Why would I waste my time looking into your life?" Sherlock replied bluntly, making no attempt to free himself from Mark's hold on him.

Mark looked like he was going to punch him again and he couldn't stop his shoulders hunching in a desperate attempt to create as much distance between his face and Mark's.

"Well how did you know then?" Sam demanded, crossing his arms as he fell into rank on the other side of Mark.

Sam wasn't as bulky as the other two but Sherlock knew from experience that what he lacked in size he more than made up for in ruthless precision. He didn't fumble with his punches; they were direct, hitting exactly where he knew would cause his victim the most pain. Sherlock had to admit he respected him more than the other two, at least he had a brain.

Mark continued to look pointedly at him, clearly having decided that he wanted answers more than he wanted to beat Sherlock to a pulp at that exact moment.

Sherlock smiled. They were so stupid. "It's painfully obvious. It's written all over you. Your hair, it's been cut, brushed, styled; an effort you wouldn't make for school. You're wearing cologne, far too much by the way, mixed with Dior. Can't be yours. Could be your mothers, but no, there is a hint of lip-gloss on your lips. Too young to be your mothers and you would have wiped that off anyway. Must be a girlfriend, sentimental way of holding onto the last kiss. And of course that's not to mention the faint bruise on your neck-"

"Alright, we get the point," Mark snapped, his mouth forming into a tight line as he scowled at Sherlock.

He was clearly pissed that Sherlock had not only guessed correctly but also had fluently explained himself yet again. He couldn't understand _how_ Sherlock picked up on things like that.

"You sick fag. You should have gotten the hint by now that no one gives a fuck what you have to say," Carl growled, almost knocking Mark over in his attempt to grab hold of Sherlock's neck.

"Why do you even keep showing your ugly face around here, huh?" Mark muttered, pushing Carl away from him as he tightened his grip on Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock couldn't help a small smile forming on his face. He knew they were going to beat him; if they were one thing, it was predictable. He might as well enjoy this moment of having the upper hand. He had out smarted them, which wasn't exactly a hard feat but it still made facing the coming beating slightly more tolerable.

Mark took a sudden step forward, pushing Sherlock ahead of him until his back hit the nearest wall. Sherlock felt a jolt of pain go through his body as his spine collided with the hard wall of the senior boys dormitory corridor. He knew what was coming; a verbal display of cussing at its finest and a beating until he was near senseless.

"Why don't you get your mother to complain? Huh? Don't you cry at home about how terrible all the boys are at Prampton? Surely at least_ she_ cares about you… or then again perhaps not," Sam sneered, chuckling at his own witty comment.

Sherlock didn't say anything; it didn't deserve an answer. He couldn't fight back, it was pointless, but be could at least try to maintain his dignity. They knew they weren't going to get any sort of reaction out of him and that seemed to aggravate them even more. He couldn't do anything but willingly fall to the ground when a swift kick was directed to his shaking legs. He curled in on himself when another blow hit him square in the chest. By now he knew well who inflicted every hit; each had their own style of attack. Mark relied on brute force while Sam was more sadistic in where he aimed his assaults. He closed his eyes, willing his mind to separate from his body and create a barrier from the pain. He could hardly hear the repetitive steam of insults from the gang of dimwits. He tried to block out the pain but as hard as he tried he couldn't stop it from taking over his consciousness. He could no longer hear anything but the dull pounding against his own flesh. Their words had lost their meaning and his awareness was slipping. He tried to shut his body down, it wouldn't be long before they bored of this; they always did eventually.

It took him a moment to realize the pain had stopped and he carefully sat up, ignoring the agony the movement caused to tear through his body. He hesitatively looked up and saw that they were still there, looking down on him with a sick sort of pleasure. They were obviously admiring their handiwork so Sherlock tried to appear in as little pain as possible. He didn't want to give them any further enjoyment from the beating he had just taken.

"You know…" Carl sighed with a smile as he crouched down next to Sherlock. "There something exceptionally pathetic about you. You think your smart don't you? But your not, you're just a freak," he continued, titling his head to the side as he leered forward tauntingly at the beaten body in front of him.

Sherlock looked up at him through his dark hair that was strewn across his forehead, unable to keep the hardness out of his glare. He refused to allow himself to retaliate; he didn't need to prolong this. He was so far beyond caring what they said about him that they might as well have been directing their insults to the wall behind him.

Sherlock's ears pricked up at the sound of muffled talking behind the door of the main corridor entrance. Carl immediately gathered himself to his feet, a slightly panicked expression clouding his face for the briefest moment. Mark quickly gestured for the other two boys to follow him as he stomped down the hall towards the door Sherlock had been looking at a second before. Sam and Carl fell into place behind Mark, making a quick escape from the crime scene.

Sherlock let his head fall back down onto the hard carpet floor as he listened to the softening footsteps of his attackers as they left him alone in the cold corridor. He closed his eyes, too exhausted to move. His entire body ached to the point where giving up was becoming an increasingly inviting idea.

He had thought returning to school a day before term started would have helped him avoid another encounter with the resident gang of Prampton Elementary. But he had been wrong. It didn't change anything though; if they hadn't been here today it would have only been a matter of time before they had cornered him. He knew tomorrow was going to be even worse, the rest of the school would have arrived, and it appeared as though almost all of them wanted a piece of him for some reason or another.

He knew if he didn't move now he would fall asleep and after the hits he had taken to the head that wasn't the safest idea. Not to mention the potential further abuse he could experience if he was found asleep on the dormitory floor. Hauling himself to his feet, he winced at the pain the movement caused to the bruises he could feel forming on his chest. Regardless of how dimwitted the brutes were, they had still been careful to ensure most of the damage was inflicted upon areas that would be covered by his uniform. He was slightly grateful for it; at least it would draw less attention to him. He didn't think he could handle those familiar blue eyes watching him with concern. He shook his head softly, trying to stop himself from thinking about _him._ He needed to get himself cleaned up and the hell out of here, not cloud his mind with any further unnecessary pain.

He instead tried to rationalize Mark's actions, he knew physically why they had chosen to beat him in the way they had. Regardless of how little the teachers cared for Sherlock's welfare, him turning up beaten to a pulp on the first day of class wasn't going to go down overly well. But give it a few weeks and he knew they wouldn't even take a second look. It wasn't unknown to him the level of hatred and intolerance the other students and teachers held towards him. He couldn't however find any rational reasoning as to why his comment had triggered the attack; surely it wasn't offensive to him. Knowing Mark he would be bragging about it for the rest of the year, perhaps he had aggravated him by knowing before he'd had the chance to make his grand announcement. He honestly didn't care and pushed the train of thought from his mind.

He placed his hand against the wall to support himself as he limped towards the nearest bathroom of the senior dormitories. Groping along the wall his hand eventually made it from the brittle yellowing wallpaper and onto the metal handle of the bathroom door. Pushing it open he tumbled into the bathroom, almost falling over again as he lost the stability of the wall. He made his way over to the closest basin, gripping onto the sides of the bowl as he spat out the blood gathering in his mouth. Taking a shaky breath he looked up to see how much mutilation had been done to his face. He was a little surprised to see how much damage they had done to his visage. He had assumed they had a little more tact than that, or at least the brains to know they should have waited at least a week or two into the term before doing anything this sever. The school year didn't even officially start until tomorrow, and very few students chose to return to school early so if he were to attend diner tonight his face would stand out blaringly against the small number of students. If Mark was counting on him not joining the other students for dinner tonight then he would be correct in his assumptions, he didn't need to give anyone further reason to abuse him. His mere presence seemed to be enough to set them off these days. This was his third and final year in this hellhole of a school and it was looking as though it was going to play out exactly the same as his previous years had. He would be out of here in less than a year and yet he wasn't in the slightest bit eager for it to end. He knew all to well that once this year was over he would never see him again. He looked away from the mirror; this bruised bloody version of his face was all too familiar to him now and he didn't need any further reminding of how pathetic he was.

He turned around and sank down against the cold tile wall between two of the basins, pulling his knees to his chest. His heart sank. He knew it irrational and beyond illogical, but he couldn't help wishing he had more time left at this goddamn school. But perhaps it was for the best; he was only torturing himself by staying here. It wasn't the pain that bothered him, and he was long past letting anything anyone said bother him. It was John Watson that he couldn't stand. He closed his eyes at the thought of him; he didn't need to think about him now, not in the state he was in. And yet he knew nothing else would make him feel any better. Closing his eyes he rested his head back against the wall, letting his mind wander where it wanted to. He was soon flooded by a memory he had long since stored away in his mind to be played over and over to the point where it almost maddened him. It was a moment he knew he would never forget, a moment John Watson probably didn't even remember. It had taken place over two years ago now, in his first year at Prampton, and it wasn't even an overly significant event. He had just taken a beating from Billy Reyes, a senior at the time, and was in the bathroom, trying stop his nose from bleeding. He could remember clearly the look on John's face when he walked in, a mixture of pity and anger. He had walked towards him, as though he were approaching a wounded animal, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He could almost feel his hand now, strong and yet somehow gentle, as he had shown him a trick for stopping his nose from bleeding. He had apologized to him on behalf of the other boys, and said he was there for him if he needed anything. Still to this day he couldn't understand why his pride had stopped him from taking John up on his offer. He knew it was the smart decision, he couldn't trust himself around John. He didn't know if his body would betray him, if he would blow his cover and push John into hating him like the rest of the school did. He hated his heart for loving John; he didn't need this. But he did, he knew he did. The thought of John was enough to keep his darker thoughts at bay; once John's small presence in his life was gone he didn't know what would be able to stop him from falling back into his old habits.

Forcing his eyes open he looked down at his white shirt, which was now stained with splattering's of his own blood. He lifted his hand to his nose and pulled it away, his fingers dripping with blood. He almost couldn't bring himself to care, but the thought of hibernating in his room for a few hours of privacy before his room was filled with three other boys was tempting enough to make him force himself up onto his feet. Using the two basins to pull himself up he stood for a few moments, waiting until his legs felt stable enough to walk. Deciding that he was beyond worrying whether he was going to fall over or not, there wasn't much more damage it could do, he walked over to the paper towel dispenser. Pulling off a wad of rough paper he held it up to his nose, wincing slightly at the discomfort it caused. He knew the split in his bottom lip was still bleeding but the paper pressed to his nose should be enough to cover his lip as well. Grabbing another handful of paper towels for later he wandered over to the door, pushing it open slowly with the hand not pressed to his face. He stuck his head out, taking a cautious look around the hall for anyone who might still be lurking around.

Seeing that it was clear he stepped out into the corridor, making his way quickly down the hall and back into his room. Pulling the door of room twenty-one shut tightly behind him he staggered across the room and collapsed down onto the bed at the far end of the room. Kicking off his shoes and wrangling his way out of his blood soaked shirt he wriggled under the covers, pulling them up to his chin while still keeping the blood flow from his nose under control. Lying down in bed he looked up at the ceiling before closing his eyes. It would only be around four in the afternoon but he no longer had any energy left to face the rest of the day, and he would need to be well rested to face tomorrow. He couldn't help but wonder what John was doing right now, probably packing his things for the trip tomorrow. He had worked out enough about John over the years he had been in contact with him, he had lost a parent not long before his first year at Prampton and judging by the fact that he never once mentioned his mother he could only assume it must be her. He knew John wanted to study medicine, and if given the chance could make a fine doctor. He hoped someone would be willing to support him, he certainly would. John would never be able to afford medical school. Everyone knew John was only able to get into Prampton as a favour to his father from Principal Magnusson who was an old friend of his. He knew it was none of his business but thinking about John's future helped him to forget about how bleak his own was looking. He really should have gotten some painkillers for his head but he was too exhausted to move, instead he let his mind wander to bittersweet daydreams of John. He began to imagining a very different life for himself, one that he could spend with John.

**. . . .**

"Oh you've got to be fucking kidding me." Anderson groaned, kicking the nearest thing to him, which happened to be his own suitcase. He looked over once again at the curled up figure he, regrettably, would recognize anywhere. This had to some kind of sick joke; he couldn't believe this was happening to him. He frantically rummaged in his coat pocket for his timetable, pulling out the already tattered piece of paper. His eyes scanned the sheet once again for his room number and the neat black print still stated 'senior boys dormitory, second level, room twenty-one.' He shoved the infuriating piece of paper back into his pocket; it had confirmed his worst nightmare. He was going to have spend the entire year sharing a room with the insufferable Sherlock Holmes.

. . . .

Hehe…Anderson ;) Next chapter will pick up from John's POV. I know this chapter is quiet short; I just wanted to see if there was any interest for this type of story before writing too much. Also if anyone would be willing to beta this story I would be immensely grateful! Many thanks for reading, and reviews mean the world to me. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Okay here's the next chapter! I'm sorry if I go on too long at the beginning about John's backstory, I just wanted to add a bit of depth to his character so I apologize if the first few paragraphs bore you! This chapter sets the scene for the rest of the story so it does go into quite a bit of detail about the school. But please bear with me, there is more action in the second half of the chapter. :) xx

. . . .

"John?" Harriet questioned as she took a quick glance at her brother dozing in the passenger seat. Her eyes studied his face for a moment, smiling sadly at him. He looked so much younger when he was asleep. She could almost imagine for a moment that the past few years hadn't happened, that her little brother hadn't been forced to grow up too fast. She was reminded of the younger John she had said goodbye to, in the exact same way she was about now, over two years ago.

His sandy blond hair was sticking up in every direction to form a tangled mess on top of his head. His face was pressed up against the cold glass of the passenger seat window as he caught up on some well-deserved rest.

He didn't make any movement to alert her that he had heard her, only letting out a small huff of air which fogged up the glass near his face. Harry pulled her eyes away for him and returned her attention to gravel road that lay beyond the front window, checking for any other vehicles on the lonely open highway. They were getting close to their destination but John could do with a bit more rest. He was clearly exhausted after the difficult weekend, and she doubted whether he had slept a wink last night. She couldn't blame him; saying goodbye was always hard. Less than twelve hours ago they had said their final farewells to their father for god knows how long. He had been re-enlisted for service in Afghanistan and a return trip wasn't exactly a guarantee. It didn't bother her what could happen to him over there anymore; it was out of her control. But she knew it played on John's mind, he cared too much. Not only about their father but also about everyone, it was just in his nature.

Since the passing of her mother over two years ago, she had refused to allow herself to form any type of sentimental attachment to anyone. She had failed of course; she couldn't bring herself not to care for John or Clare. Her father, however, was an entirely different matter. Even as a child she had never been particularly fond of him and knew if his death were to be untimely it wouldn't affect her greatly. She worried for John though; saying goodbye yesterday hadn't been easy for him and she knew her news today would just be another blow to him.

"John?" she mumbled, removing one hand from the steering wheel to gently shake John's shoulder.

John's eyes blinked open slowly, his head feeling nauseatingly groggy from the unexpected nap. He rubbed his face harshly in an attempt to wake himself up, shaking his head to try and rid himself of the unpleasant feeling.

"Sorry," he muttered hoarsely as he turned to look at Harry. He hadn't meant to fall asleep on his sister; she must have been bored out of her mind. He was amazed that he had been able to sleep at all though, especially after last night when rest had so successfully evaded him.

"It's all right," she assured him, giving him a small smile before returning her eyes to the rain-drenched road. "We're almost there. Didn't think you'd want me to pull up with you passed out against the window."

John smiled at her for a moment before looking past the glass and trying to make out the surrounding landscape through the heavy rain. Harriet could be sweet when she wanted to be, but he knew her well enough to know there had to be some reason behind it – most likely guilt. He would reassure her when the time came though, just as he had done every other year.

He fixed his eyes on the water droplets sliding down the window and he shivered slightly. It was a nice feeling really, being tucked up inside the small car, the heater blasting out at him while he sat huddled into the soft fabric of the car seat. He was going to miss this.

It was an unnaturally cold day for the end of summer but it suited the mood. He didn't know if his father was coming back and now Harry was leaving too. This summer had been without a doubt the best he could remember having since his mother died. It had just been the three of them and it had felt as though nothing had changed between them, even if only for a moment.

He knew Harriet was hiding something from him though and had been trying to work out how to tell him whatever it was all weekend. He didn't know what could be worse than what they had already been through yesterday. He hated the thought of his father being back in Afghanistan and the fact that he couldn't do anything for him now. All he could do was pray that by some miracle he would return home, without a bullet in him.

"John…" Harriet began, her eyes focused on the windscreen in front of her. She had to tell him now; they would be arriving any minute.

"Mmm?" he questioned, turning once again to look at her. If she had something she wanted to tell him then she better do it soon, she was running out of time.

"Nothing," she muttered, shaking her head slightly and visibly sighing at her own failure to tell him. She couldn't do it, she just couldn't. She felt awful but the plans had already been made, she couldn't back out now.

John let it slide; it was her call. If she wanted to tell him something she would get around to it eventually. He knew she was going back to University but beyond that she hadn't mentioned anything about her plans for the year. It wasn't hard to see that she was feeling guilty for leaving him at boarding school for another year but it wasn't her fault. After essentially losing both parents Harriet was all he had left, but she had her own life to live. He couldn't blame her for going off to do her own thing while he was still required to attend school. Who on earth would want to be stuck looking after their little brother while he finished high school? There wasn't anyone left to look after him and at the age of fifteen he was too young to stay at home alone. Boarding school was left as the only plausible option. The first year had been the hardest – he had just lost his mother, his sister had left, and his father was at war overseas. But it had eventually gotten easier. Two years later and here he was, on his way back for his final year of high school.

The car continued down the muddy gravel road, passing one small town John had come to know well. It wasn't particularly interesting and only consisted of a few stores and cafes, a single restaurant and bar, and a liquor store the seniors at Prampton dutifully cleared out every weekend. He smiled as they drove past the inconspicuous town; it was one of the things he enjoyed most about boarding school. The rules at Prampton left something to be desired but it at least they were able to leave on the weekends to go into town or wherever else they could arrange transport to. Prampton wasn't what you would call a good school by any means, or even a decent one. It was well known for two things, firstly for its notoriously bad lack of discipline and secondly for being one of the most dangerous schools to be enrolled in if you happened to end up on the wrong side of the current school gang. He couldn't help his mind going to a certain tall black haired outcast and that thought. He tried to push it from his mind; it didn't do well to dwell on someone who didn't want anything to do with you.

He still remembered seeing first-hand the abuse the boys at Prampton were capable of and the lack of interest the teachers had for putting a stop to it. Most of that abuse he had witnessed was directed at one specific student.

He hadn't realized they had arrived until the car gave a small lurch forward when Harry put the gears into park. He looked up at the school that was just visible from where they had parked outside the old iron-gate. High brick walls marked the boundary of the school grounds and the rusty metal entrance gates, which were swung wide open, were less than welcoming. He couldn't understand _how_ the school was still open given the state of the place. But in its odd sort of way it was home. It was always cold, quite frankly revolting in some areas, most of the students were vile, and the teachers were often even worse, but he had grown fond of the crusty old school. If he was honest with himself, though, it had more to do with a certain individual than anything else.

"John, there's something I have to tell you," Harry sighed, her hands still gripped tightly onto the steering wheel. She deliberately avoided looking over at John; she didn't want to lose her nerve.

"Yeah?" he questioned, unable to keep a smile off his face, it was so like Harry to wait until the absolute last minute before telling him.

"Well… you know how Dad isn't scheduled to be becoming home at any point this year…" she trailed off, deciding best how to word it what she had to tell him. "Well, umm, Clare asked if I would spend Christmas with her family this year, and, and I said yes. I mean I couldn't really refuse, she doesn't ask for much, and I can't really afford the money or time for the four-hour trip back from Oxford just for the two-week break…" she paused, daring a glance over at John. She was surprised to see a small smile playing on his face, not to resentment she had expected to observe.

"That sounds nice," John mumbled, when his sister finally met his eyes.

"Aw, John, I'm so sorry. I know this isn't fair to you," she apologized, reaching out to rub John's shoulder. Her hands shook slightly as she tried to push back the guilt she felt for abandoning him once again.

"What for? You're going to spend Christmas with your girlfriend, what's there to be sorry for?" he asked, looking at Harry in confusion. Surely she didn't think he was going to put up a fuss because she actually had friends, a _partner_, and a life.

"You'll have to stay here over the holidays," she added, her eyes still scrutinizing his face for any signs that this news had hurt him.

"It's not so bad, I'm sure there will be others staying as well. I'll be able to get a tone of study done too," he assured her. He knew she felt bad for leaving him and appreciated that, but he knew that she didn't like being tied down to dead weight like him. He was going to be eighteen at the end of this year and then she wouldn't have to worry over him anymore. What did it matter if she didn't see him for Christmas? If she wanted to spend it with people who she actually liked, then that was fine with him. He would miss her though. She might not be much but she was family.

"You'll be okay?" she inquired, pulling her hand back to grip onto the handle of her bag. She really didn't want to sit here any longer; this was getting awkward enough without dragging it out.

"Oh for goodness sakes Harry, I'm seventeen. I can handle being by myself for three two-week holidays," he countered, a small chuckle creeping into his voice. He knew humor would make things easier for her.

She smiled at him before rummaging through her bag for her umbrella. Pulling it out she opened the side door and stepped out into the downpour.

Gripping hold of the door handle John took a deep breath before hauling himself out of the warm car and into the harsh wind and rain. Closing the door quickly behind him he wandered over to the rear of the car. Harriet had popped the boot and was stood beside the car, umbrella in hand. Stepping under the small shelter he hauled his trunk from the car, grumbling under his breath as he held the weight of his supplies for the year.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" she asked, straightening the collar of his shirt peeking out from his hideous grey knit school jumper.

"'Course. You too Harry," he replied, giving her a warm smile. It was sad to see her go. Even though she wasn't particularly fond of him he knew that deep down she cared about him.

"Come here you, I can't leave without giving you a hug," she chucked, pulling him into a one armed embrace.

He smiled as her big frame held his small one close to her, and was hit a by a sickly sad thought; this was likely to be the only hug he was going to get until next summer. Before he could dwell on that she pulled away from him, a sad smile lingering on her face.

"Go on, you're going to be late. Don't you dare get all sappy with me John Watson," she warned, pointing at him accusingly as she stepped away from him.

As she moved away he was once again exposed to the rain and no longer felt like waiting outside. With one final smile he turned and walked towards the school, lugging the heavy trunk along with him.

He was barely half way to the school when he felt the rain soak through his uniform; he was going to have to change once he got to his room. He hadn't thought about it until now but he was going to be assigned to a new room this year and wondered who on earth he was going to be rooming with. He'd be lying if he didn't admit his mind had raced to the possibility of sharing with Sherlock Holmes, but he knew he wasn't that lucky. Knowing him he'd probably end up sharing with someone vile like Mark Riggins or Carl Davis. But still a boy could dream. It was pathetic really. He had tried to help Sherlock once but he had seemed less than interested. He had thought he would want a friend, or an ally at least, but that clearly wasn't the case. It was hard for him to watch Sherlock being abused by the other boys but there was nothing he could do.

Lost in thought he almost crashed into the glass door of the administration office. Pulling back just in time he looked up to see the elderly woman seated at the reception desk chuckling at his blunder. His face reddened as he gripped onto the handle of the door and pulled it open. Stepping into the warm room he dropped his heavy luggage to the ground and his ears were met with the sound of laughter.

"Sorry dear," she sighed, trying to pull herself together. "You should have seen yourself. Storming up here, not watching where you were going," she explained, giving him a reassuring smile.

He couldn't help but return it. He must have looked stupid storming up the drive, no doubt a scowl on his face as he nearly walked straight into the slider door.

"Now dear, you will be needing your timetable, oh and your dorm room of course," she said, mainly to herself as she rummaged through the stack of files on her desk.

"Yes, please," he mumbled, stepping forward to stand in front of her desk. It was slightly warmer by her desk as it was closer to the small floor heater fruitless attempt to warm the cold room. It didn't do much to break through the numbness he felt in his drenched uniform.

"Here we are," she said, holding out a sheet of paper to him almost triumphantly. "That's got everything you need to know on it."

"Thank you," he responded automatically, taking the paper from her out stretched hand. He quickly folded the paper, pocketing it without even giving it a second glance.

"My pleasure, dear. Now you better go, everyone is required in the hall at five o'clock so you best get changed out of those wet clothes," she suggested, giving him a warm smile.

"Of course. Thank you again, Mrs. Hudson," he agreed, turning to pick up his trunk off the floor. He walked over to the door, preparing to meet the cold weather again.

"Oh and Mr. Watson," she called as he reached the door.

He spun around to look back at her, eager to delay his departure; the rain really didn't look overly appealing. He looked back over at Mrs. Hudson, seeing her joyful wrinkled face looking up at him.

"It's good to have you back," she said, putting her smile lines to good use.

He nodded to her, unable to keep a smile off his face as their eyes met for a moment before he pushed his way out the door and back into the relentless down pour. It was impossible not to like Mrs. Hudson. Strictly speaking, she was the school warden, but she was more like a mother really. He knew it was her who single handedly kept this school running, without her this place would have been closed down years ago. Even though she had little control over the students at the school at least she kept the place livable.

John quickly ran across the courtyard, heading straight for coverage under the nearest block of classrooms. Coming to stand under the small canopy he dropped his bag to the ground, water sloshing up at him as his leather case slapped against the concrete floor. He looked at the familiar block of building as shook his head. The architecture of the school was a complete nightmare. The school had an abundant number of unusable rooms and corridors that hadn't been thought out properly and were seemingly useless. The outside was hideous with what could only be described as tunnels severing as passageways to link the second floor classrooms and dormitories of each building together. Standing under the small cover of the ground floor science labs he looked out over the courtyard and up at the network of covered bridges above him. He had to admit it was clever as you could walk between buildings without having to go outside, you could however get lost very easily. He remembered getting lost in his first year; he had ended up on the roof somehow. But that had lead to a very useful discovery of what had become his hideout for the past few years.

Pulling out the form Mrs. Hudson had given he scanned the paper for his room number. He located it after a few moments; seeing that he had been assigned room twenty on the second floor. It seemed harmless enough, that was the largest senior dorm floor and had the best bathrooms. But it would all depend on who he was rooming with. Pocketing the paper once again he hauled his bag off the ground and wandered along the coverage of the science labs to the entrance of the stairs leading up to the second floor.

Using his back to push open the swinging door he stumbled into the corridor, almost falling face forward due to the weight of his bag. Ambling over to the stairs he took them two at a time, deciding it was better to get them out of the way. Thoroughly out of breath by the time he reached the top, he stopped for a moment to regain his composure. He forced himself to continue walking; he didn't have much time before the assembly started. This wasn't exactly his idea arrival; he would much rather not have turned up soaking wet and tired. But I could do anything about it now, at least there wasn't long left before he could turn in for an early night.

Walking past the English lecture halls he pushed open the door of the passageway leading to the dormitory building. Walking across the passageway he looked down on the quad he had been standing in before, grateful that the surrounding windows kept out the rain. Pushing open the door at the end of the tunnel he was met with a sight of utter chaos and ghastly yellow wallpaper. Boys were running between rooms, the odd soccer ball was being kicked around, and John could barely hear himself think over the noise. Edging further into the hall he tried to make his way to room twenty. Ducking between dangerously flailing arms and stepping around discarded items he eventually made his way to his room, all but collapsing once the door was shut tightly behind him.

"You own me ten pounds Martin, and you_ better_ pay up," Ben teased, grinning when he saw John stagger through the door.

"Damn. I thought for sure it was going to be Mark but I'm too relived to complain," Martin chucked, tossing the money to Ben who pocketed it before Martin could change his mind.

"Ignore them John, it's good to have you rooming with us." Greg stated, giving the pair of them a feigned stern glare before wandering over to John.

It took a John a moment before he could respond. He was beyond grateful with his roommates. Greg Lestrade was quite possibly the most decent boy at the school and Ben and Martin weren't half bad either.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to be rooming with you guys," John said, smiling as Greg helped him lug his bag over to the bed at the far side of the room. He was pleased to find he had been assigned the bed near the wall; it somehow felt safer than sleeping near the door.

"Same here," Martin agreed, flopping down onto his bed. "It would suck to be rooming with someone like Mark."

"Or Carl," Ben added, sinking down onto the edge of Martins bed. "God, I can't even imaging sharing with one of them."

"Forget them, imagine sharing with Holmes," Martin countered, shuddering visibly from the thought.

"Sherlock's not _that _bad," Greg protested, sitting down on his own bed and looking across at the pair of them.

"Yeah but he'd be doing that weird thing where he knows all that fucked up shit," Ben objected as he rummaged through his bag for his school tie.

John tried to ignore the last comment. He didn't think it was fucked up; what Sherlock could do was incredible. Maybe he was crazy but he just didn't see Sherlock the way the other boys seemed to.

A loud siren pulled him from his thoughts, reminding him that he was supposed to be getting changed.

"Come on, let's get this over with," Martin grumbled, pushing Ben off his bed before clambering off after him.

"Damn these stupid assemblies," Greg muttered. He stood to his feet as well and stretched his arms above his head before turning to John. "You coming?" he asked, noticing John's soaked uniform for the first time.

"Yeah, you guys go ahead. I just need to change first," John explained, quickly pulling out his spare uniform from his bag.

"Okay, catch you later then," Greg replied as he turned to leave the room.

"Hey, any idea who's going to be head boy this year?" Martin questioned Ben as they followed Greg out of the room.

The door swung closed as Ben started to ramble on to Martin about whom he thought would be in the running.

Sighing to himself John peeled his wet jumper and shirt from his skin, somehow still managing to shiver as the cold air met his bare skin. Pulling on a dry shirt and tie he rummaged through his bag for a change of pants. Locating his second pair of long black trousers he quickly changed into them before pulling on some warm socks and dry shoes. He didn't have a spare jumper though but he would be colder in the wet one than without one at all. The assembly hopefully wouldn't last too long so he could survive without one until he got back.

Closing his bag he quickly left the room, dashing back through the hall and out the door onto the undercover passageway. Looking down he could see that the courtyard was emptying fast as students dashed across to the main hall, eager to be out of the rain. His eyes locked on two boys standing at the far side of the yard. It took him a moment to realize that there was in fact a third boy who was being corned by the other two. Moving closer to the window he felt a surge of anger pulse through him. He knew exactly who those boys were.

"Like hell," muttered under his breath as one of the boys fists collided with Sherlock's face. He wasn't going to stand around at let that happen. His father was fighting in Afghanistan for fuck's sake; if he couldn't stand up to the bullies at his school then he didn't deserve to call himself a Watson. Tearing down the stairs his mind was torn between two desires, to punch those dicks in the face, and to hold Sherlock and check he was okay. He couldn't quite decide which he wanted to do more.

Kicking open the door he ran out into the quad, making his way over to Sherlock as fast as he could. He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or pissed to see Sherlock lying on the ground, completely alone. He looked over to see the two boys running into the main hall and closing the doors tightly behind them. Without thinking what he was doing he ran over to Sherlock, his arms reaching out to him as he fell to his knees beside him.

Sherlock jerked away from him, his eyes flashing with fear as though expecting another blow to the face. His entire body was trembling from the cold and fear he was unable to hide in his shaken state.

John lifted his hands as a show of surrender, trying to reassure him that he wasn't going to harm him. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help," John explained, slowly reaching out once again to place a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock looked up at John, not quite sure if this was really happening or if he had just taken too hard a blow to the head. Surely John wouldn't willingly want be this close to him.

"Come on. We need to get you inside and cleaned up," John suggested, taking a firm grip on the underneath of Sherlock's elbows to help him to his feet.

Sherlock almost fell over again as he tried to regain his balance but as soon as he felt himself falling John was next to him, his arm wrapped tightly around his waist to help him stay up right.

"Easy. Take your time," John reassured him, his hand gently rubbing his side in an attempt to comfort him. He didn't want to rush him in case he passed out. But they really needed to get out of the rain.

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his sink when John's hand rubbed soothing circles on his side, he couldn't believe the reaction such a small movement drew out of him. He tried to focus, he couldn't slip up or it would ruin everything.

Seeing that Sherlock seemed stable enough he slowly led him back to the cover of the stairs, being careful not to rush him. He tried not to think about how wonderful Sherlock's body felt pressed against the side of his, now was definitely not the time to be thinking about anything like _that_. He didn't care if Sherlock didn't want his help or if the second he recovered he pushed him away, because right now he could help him when he needed it most. And that was all that mattered.

Pushing open the door to the stairwell John helped Sherlock up and led him back to the second floor boys' dormitories. He tried to be gentle, especially as they hobbled up each step.

"I'll take you to my room. I've got a first aid kit in there. That okay?" he questioned as they wandered down the hall to his room. He hoped Sherlock didn't already know about him. But going by the way he could tell almost everything about someone from a single glance he didn't hold out much hope on that. Maybe that was why he had refused his help before.

Sherlock nodded numbly, he was in no state to argue. He couldn't understand why John was doing this, he had seen him beaten plenty of times before. Why had he chosen to help him this time?

Making his way over to room twenty, his newly assigned dorm room, John pushed the door open with the arm not around Sherlock. Holding the door open he released his grip on Sherlock so he could walk into the room. Stepping into the room after him John guided him over to his bed, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Sherlock slumped down onto John's bed, wincing slightly as the bruises from yesterday stung in protest.

"Did they hit you in the chest too?" John asked, unable to keep the harsh edge out of his voice. He couldn't stand seeing Sherlock in this much pain. His lip was bleeding, a bruise was in full bloom over his right eye that couldn't be from just now, and he appeared to be in pain from his chest as well.

"Not today," he murmured quietly, unable to meet John's eyes. He didn't want his pity and he didn't think he could handle seeing any form of compassion that his mind would twist into something else.

John tried to calm down; he didn't need to get angry about this. He could deal with those bastards later but right now Sherlock was his main priority.

"I'll get something for your lip," John replied, pulling out his bag and searching through it for the first aid kit he had stored in there. Finding the small box he flicked open the latch and pulled out a cloth and a tube of antiseptic cream.

He applied some to the cloth and placed the antiseptic back in the kit. Dropping the box to the floor he moved to kneel in front of Sherlock, gently taking his jaw in his hand.

"Stay still, okay?" John requested, carefully pressing the cloth to the cut on Sherlock's lip.

Sherlock tried to keep his breathing steady. John was inches from his face, his hand holding his jaw while he tended to his lip. But breathing normally became exceptionally difficult when John's hand moved ever so slightly against his face. As John pulled the cloth away from his lip his fingers skimmed ever so gently across his lip and he couldn't keep back a pathetic whimper at how wonderful it felt.

"Sorry," John muttered. "That stuff does sting a little," he chuckled awkwardly, giving him a small smile.

Sherlock simply stared at him, unable for the first time in life to think of anything intelligent to say. John was perfect, too perfect, and far too kind. He didn't think he had seeing anything better than John kneeling in front of him, looking up at him with a nervous smile. His hair was dripping wet and his white school shirt was soaked through so every line of his body was visible. He swallowed nervously as his eyes raked over his body, almost unable to control to desire to tear that shirt off him. John's eyes met his and he immediately snapped out of his thoughts.

"Why aren't you wearing your jumper?" he asked suddenly. It was a pathetic cover for why he had been ogling his chest but John seemed to buy it.

"It's soaking wet, so I took it off. Not that it would have made much difference now," he explained, chucking as he gestured to his second rain drenched uniform for the day.

Sherlock merely nodded, unable to think of anything else to say. He needed to get away from John; he couldn't handle this. It was impossible for him to be near John without his mind rushing to other things.

John slumped backwards, fully sitting on the ground now. He was cold, exhausted, and just wanted to collapse in bed, preferably with Sherlock still in it. They would have well and truly missed the beginning of the assembly and would likely get into more trouble for showing up late than not showing up at all. He was too tired to give a damn what he would get in response to the question he wanted to ask so he might as well try. He would rather be turned down now then live wondering if he would have gotten the answer he was hoping for.

"Sh-sherlock?" John questioned, his voice shaking slightly, but not from the cold.

"Mmm?" he mumbled, turning his head to get a better look at John. He couldn't understand why there was a nervous tinge to John's voice, what did_ he_ have to be worried about?

"You probably don't remember but in our first year I…I offered to help you, to be your friend…" he mumbled, his face turning bright red when he saw the confused look on Sherlock's face. It sounded so stupid when he said it out loud but he didn't know how else to word it.

Sherlock stared at him, beyond stunned. John remembered. He remembered what had happened between them over two years ago. That wasn't something he had even dreamed of happening.

"I remember," he stated bluntly, refusing to allow his emotions to interpret the situation differently from the truth.

"You do?" John asked, shocked that Sherlock Holmes remembered when he had tried to help him. It was something he was sure Sherlock would have tried to forget.

"Of course," he replied, trying to keep his answers short. He knew where John was going with this and didn't think he wouldn't be able to handle it. He couldn't just be friends with John. Friends didn't have the urge to tear each other's clothes off and ravish them against the nearest wall. He tried to push that thought from his mind; he really didn't need to get hard right now. It wasn't as easy as he had hoped. John's position on the floor was somewhat erotic and the way his wet shirt clung to his body had his heart racing.

"Well… I just wanted to say that, that… that offer still stands," John stuttered, nearly losing his nerve half way through. It was nothing close to what he wanted but he would rather be a small part of Sherlock's life than not be in it at all.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock mumbled a few moments later, looking nervously across at John though his dark hair. He couldn't understand what had changed in John over the summer. But something had definitely changed.

"Because you don't deserve the shit you get from those assholes. And because I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for sitting around and letting it happen… and, I can't do it anymore. I won't do it anymore. I care about you Sherlock…" he explained, his voice shaking to the point of breaking as he stumbled through his pathetic attempt to tell Sherlock how he felt. He didn't know what else to say. That he was in love with him? Sherlock would storm out of the room and tell him to get the hell away from him. He still could for the confession he had already made.

Sherlock looked up at John, his eyebrows fusing as he stared at him. He didn't know what to say or what to think. John _cared_ about him? He couldn't quite grasp the concept, it seemed somewhat abnormal to him, the idea that someone like John could care about someone like him. He dropped his head into his hands, his elbows propped up on his knees. His head ached and he was far too exhausted to deal with this now. He didn't know what stupid things he could say in his current state; so staying silent was the safest option.

Sighing at the clear rejection on Sherlock's behalf John pulled the discarded first aid kit into his lap, rummaging through it for some more supplies. Taking out two aspirin he placed them on his knee before rummaging through his trunk for the food he had stored there. Finding a bar of chocolate Harriet had given him and bottle of water he closed the bag.

"You should probably get back to your room. The assembly will be finishing up soon," John suggested, standing to his feet with his findings in his hands. He knew Sherlock didn't have a response to what he had just confessed and probably wanted nothing more than to get out of here as fast as he could.

Sherlock nodded numbly, already feeling a state of depression sinking in at the realization that he could never the type of relationship he wanted with John. John cared for him, nothing more. He didn't like seeing him getting beaten but he certainly didn't love him and he would be a fool to even entertain the possibility. Pushing himself up off the bed his head spun painfully and he had to grip onto the wall to keep himself upright.

John instantly reached out for Sherlock, his free hand coming to rest on the side of his chest. Sherlock visibly straightened under his touch and he quickly drew his arm back, feeling embarrassed for having clearly over stepped the line.

"Sorry," John muttered, lowering his eyes to the floor. He couldn't help feeling like a complete idiot. What had he expected to happen? That Sherlock would welcome his affection with open arms; he was kidding himself if he thought that was likely to happen. Sherlock had made it clear on several occasions the distaste he had for 'ordinary people' and he was mistaken for thinking he was any different.

"Don't apologize. I do appreciate your help John, but I cannot accept it," Sherlock explained, giving John a tight smile. He had just proved to himself that he couldn't do this. He had to end this now before he did anything he would regret.

"What do you mean?" John asked, fidgeting nervously with the cap of the bottle in his right hand. Would Sherlock really not accept his help just because he was gay?

"Do you have any idea what they would do to you if they found out you were helping me?" he demanded, looking at John pointedly. He didn't need to specify who he meant, John knew that well enough. He also knew the abuse he would be opening himself up to and that worried him more than anything else. In the larger scheme it didn't matter if John found out about him, but if he got hurt it would be all his fault. He could take the beatings but he wouldn't be able to stand watching John go through it too.

"Sherlock…" John sighed, dropping the water, chocolate, and pills to the ground as he walked over to Sherlock. "I don't give a damn what they're going to say or do. If _you_ don't want anything to do with me then that's fine, but…" he trailed off, unsure how to finish what he wanted to say. He seemed to lose all ability to speak in Sherlock's presence.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied a few moments later, his voice barely audible. He couldn't understand why John was doing this. He had never shown any kindness towards John before, he had never done anything for him, and yet here he was offering him his companionship.

John locked eyes with Sherlock, his face twisted in a clear mix of confusion and astonishment. John rocked nervously on his heels before taking a hesitative step towards Sherlock. The next thing Sherlock knew John's soft sandy hair was brushing against his chin as he was pulled into a gentle hug. John was obviously being very careful of his bruises but he wished he wasn't. His body was lightly pressed against his own but he wasn't close enough. He wanted to feel every line of his body, every curve, and convert them to memory. It took all his restraint not to wrap his arms around John and pull their bodies together. He knew it would be obvious to John what he was thinking if he did and he didn't want to ruin this.

John pulled back from Sherlock a second later, shocked that he had actually done that. His mind was only just catching up with his actions and the consequences they were likely to have. Clearing his throat awkwardly he turned and picked up the items he had carelessly discarded a moment ago, mainly as an excuse to do something other than stand in front of Sherlock looking like a complete idiot. He felt his cheeks burning bright red as he turned back to face Sherlock.

"Here, you should take these," John suggested, holding out the water and aspirin to Sherlock.

Sherlock reached out with shaky hands to take the pills from John, trying to keep himself calm. He could see that John was fluttered and embarrassed about what had happened but couldn't understand why as he was the one who had instigated it. Taking out two pills he uncapped the water bottle and swallowed the medication down.

"Well, um, do you need a hand back to your room?" John asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"No. It's just next door," Sherlock stated quickly, forcing himself to look at John.

"Oh, really?" John asked automatically. He couldn't keep a hint of excitement from creeping into his voice. If Sherlock's room was close to his own then he was likely to be able to see more of him and perhaps have a few more moments like this one. He hated the fact that it was only because Sherlock had been beaten that he was even speaking to him but it was better than nothing.

"Yes, room twenty-one," he replied, pointing to the wall John's bed was stood beside. His bed was directly on the other side of that wall. It was almost painful to think just how close John was to him. It suited well really, he was close enough to touch but with too many boundaries in-between them.

"Well, you could stay if you wanted to…" John said quickly, he didn't want Sherlock to feel as though he was kicking him out. He wasn't in the slightest. If it was up to him he would pin him down on his bed and refuse to let him leave, but of course it wasn't up to him.

"No, I should be going. I need to be gone by the time the others return or you'll have some difficult questions to answer," Sherlock replied, giving John a small smile.

"Okay… here, take this before you go," John added, his voice quickening in response to Sherlock's movement towards the door. He held out the bar of chocolate to Sherlock, giving him a nervous smile.

Sherlock took the bar, looking at John in confusion. What on earth did he need this for?

"Low blood sugar," John explained, realizing the reason for the perplexed look on Sherlock's face. "And because you often miss diner," John added, the meaning clear in his voice.

He didn't know what type of issues Sherlock had with eating but he worried about him, he didn't look overly healthy most of the time. It didn't help that his natural complexion was alabaster white but paired with the painful bruises on his face he often looked horribly ill. He was exceptionally thin; his body was all sharp edges and protruding bones covered in pale skin and clearly visible veins. And if he was honest with himself he was scared. There was surely only so much one person could take before they broke.

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled for the second time that day. He pocketed the gift and smiled. He wasn't in the habit of saying 'thank you' to people. But then again he hadn't had much opportunity to do so.

"No worries," John replied quickly, shuffling nervously over to the door.

Sherlock quietly followed John back to the door, in no real rush to leave. It was unlikely he would ever be back in this room again so he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

John held the door open for Sherlock as he came up behind him, feeling his heart sink slightly at the thought of Sherlock most likely not coming back. Sherlock stepped into the doorway, unsure whether he should say something or if doing that would only embarrass him further.

"Sherlock…" John said suddenly, reaching out to him for a split second before drawing his hand back.

Sherlock spun around to look at John, his heart speeding up on its own accord. Some sadistic part of him forced the idea of what John could say into his mind.

"If you need anything, I'm right here," he muttered, unable to stop his hands from shaking. He wanted Sherlock to know that at least, he hoped knowing he had someone on his side would make things easier for him.

Sherlock nodded almost numbly, trying to stop his mind going into overdrive and dissecting every possible meaning behind those words. He knew the mind often perceived what it wanted to rather than what was the truth. He had never had to worry about that before but this involved his heart and if he wasn't careful it was going to rule his head in this case.

"Goodbye John," Sherlock said, stepping out into the hall. His room was only a few steps away but it felt like an exceptionally long walk to the next door, mainly because he could feel John's eyes on his back. Finally reaching the door he opened it, turning to look back and wave at John before stepping into his room.

Once Sherlock was back inside his room John closed the door to his own room, sinking down against the back of the door. He hid his face in his hands, the full weight of what had happened crashing down onto him. He could only form one coherent thought in his current state and that was that he had gotten himself into a complete mess in the last half hour. He didn't know what would happen now or where this would lead to, but today was a start. He had finally made the first step he had been thinking about for years. It was his final year - and more importantly - his final chance. He knew it wasn't going to be easy but he was going to help Sherlock, whether he liked it or not.

. . . .

Thanks so much for reading! I have a lot of ideas for this fanfiction but I'm worried that it's off to a bit of a rocky start…any ideas on how to improve this would be greatly appreciated, as would any reviews in general. :) xx


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